It’s getting to the stage where the words are slowly disappearing from the dictionary in my mind. You’ve stolen my vocabulary and jumbled it up; stealing my vowels and consonants until all I am left with are half-way grins and flustered mouthings. You’ve replaced them with late nights and early mornings spent thinking of what it would be like to place my hand on your chest and feel your heart beat. And if I wanted to press my lips where your breath catches in your throat, would you let me?
Be the coldest water to my burning tongue. Because there is an unnamed language that sparks into existence at the precise moment our lips stop being lips and start being smiles. I have yet to decide which is worse; drowning beneath the waves which linger behind your eyes or to die from the thirst of wanting.
And I have used hours and days trying to fit my tongue around the sentences I want to say to you. But no combination of twenty-six different letters could ever capture even a sliver of what this feeling is. I try to understand it, try and grasp at its core and wrap my head around the edges, but I am left only with the smudges and stains, and they do not help me when I feel the eagerness of it all. This feeling, the way it has wrapped its arms around the thumping in my chest, it absolutely terrifies me. Because we are Stupid and we are Crazy and we will not stop, not yet, not when we’ve come this far. I suppose we are still reckless, careless teenagers in many ways. And I feel naïve and childish when I dwell on the unlikeliness of what we’ve found in each others presence.
I feel that we are safer where we are, these miles stretching out between us. They keep us safe from the aches and pains that come with growing up, with realizing that these feelings maybe have consequence. And I bite my lip and wonder whether we will face them together or alone. Because there is always a bitterness to things such as this, despite the tender hope of each passing day. I am fearful that I will become all too consumed by the warmth and promise of this indulgence. And then what? Tell me what I am supposed to do when all I want, all that could be, has an inevitable and visible end. This is the hurt and longing that plagues all of my goodbyes.
But maybe things will fall into place; maybe this will all make sense somehow. We haven't even gotten to the worst part yet. The sky is an ocean, after all, and we’ve been drowning our whole lives.